This happens to me every 3 months. I know when I have to get it done, I don’t ever need to do the maths, or set a phone reminder, or stick a post-it on the fridge because it’s ingrained in my mind but every.single.time I have to do it, there’s drama. But I know that if I don’t go, oh boy will there be DRAMA!
So the whole week I’ve had it at the back of my mind to phone my gynae and get a script for my injection. On Tuesday I eventually called and listened to a long voice message which went on and on about what times Dr G is available, when she is off, when she is in theatre, when she is at the mosque or in prayer, when she is on half day – the jist of the message being that she is hardly ever at the office but rather off enjoying the consult fees from last week which accumulate to more than my monthly salary. I called again on Wednesday and left a message with the temporary receptionist because the regular receptionist was on leave. Temporary receptionist sounded scared and confused – all I needed was a script emailed to me, come on, you can do this. I still hadn’t received anything yesterday. This morning I phoned and thank the pope, Santie answered and we did our usual 6 month (I get a two dose repeat script) polite exchange and she promised to get it signed off AFTER I had sent through the proof of payment for the FIFTY RANDS you have to pay in order to get a script sent to you!! Geez. You mean all those thousands of rands in consult fees over two pregnancies and the thousands of rands for two ceasars don’t cover a simple fax? Ok. So I did that quickly while calling Dischem to get an appointment. The clinic was fully booked until the 3 October, huh? No thanks, I may be pregnant by then. Santie calls back to say her emails are down and do I have a fax number. Ok, hold on while I go back to the Ice Age and see if my fax machine still works. My fax to email doesn’t work, so I had to get her to send it to some strange person at my husband’s office because this person is the only person we collectively know with a fax number. Now some random man knows my contraceptive requirements, great. I googled Dischem and Clicks clinics and called two branches which were fully booked. Don’t people go to their regular GPs anymore? Eventually I got an appointment at Sandton City Clicks. I do not enjoy shopping at Sandton City purely because of the parking. No matter what time of the day it is, I always feel like a mouse on a wheel , going round in circles but not getting a parking any time soon.
I got to the counter because I first needed to get the darn injection in a bottle before I could get poked and she asked me if I’d like that cash or medical aid. Oh, they were having such great specials so I got Liam’s allergy meds and stocked up on the usual suspects: Stopayne, Demazin and my repeat Singulair. And full of bravado I said “run that through the medical aid baby” only to be told that our savings are just about depleted and that OTC meds should be paid for in cash, so I sheepishly agreed that yes it would be better to keep the crumbs left of our savings for a more important event like an unannounced trip to the doc. I then waited about 15 minutes to see the sister EVEN though I had a scheduled appointment, but seriously, I would have waited an hour for this poke. Pulled down my pants, took it like a woman who doesn’t want another child and left. Got to the parking pay point and realized I had about R50 in 5 cent pieces and nothing else. SIGHHHHH. I have no idea where any ATMs are in Sandton City and after running around like a headless chicken, someone kindly pointed out that there was one in Clicks, right next to the clinic. Funny that.
So here I sit, backside still smarting from my poke, wondering why I still endure this laborious task every three months when my husband should just go and get snipped. I mean I have done my bit for society, I think he needs to know how it feels to have some strange person in a white uniform fiddle with your bits. He isn’t opposed to it, probably because he is so desperate not to have another mouth to feed, but he expects me to do all the paperwork and give him a date, time and address. So early next year (since I’ve discovered my medical aid is all but BUST) I will be scheduling a little nip and tuck for the hubby. But what will I blame my weight gain, raging appetite and general crabby disposition on, if not my dear Depo Provera?